Winter Blues

As it gets darker earlier and mother natures breath gets more chilling, I wonder if I would feel more content somewhere else. Possibly a beach paradise, fruity drink in hand- swaying on a hammock in the warm breeze. Maybe a tropical rain forest, laying under a thatched roof and mosquito net counting the tree frogs. I could even go for a desert like climate; riding a horse while gazing at the hues of oranges and browns in a sunset over the badlands. Just anywhere other than here...

Instead, my alarm goes off, I roll out of bed and stick my cold tootsies in my slippers and reluctantly let the pups out in the cold- watching my breath curl, coil, and dance in front of me as I quickly try to shut the door behind them. I reluctantly shower, put my work clothes on (something that other than jeans or sweats and a Tee) and roll into work... all while thinking how trying it is to shape America's youth. By the time "winter" break arrives, you can see the desperation in your coworker's eyes: "Please God, just get me through one more week without having a mental breakdown"

Despite the deadlines for grades, the meetings about at risk students, the parent contacts, creating of lessons, whining students, flu epidemics, IEP meetings, unannounced observations, server meltdowns and the occasional bloody finger "can I have a band aid?!" urgency- it's not all so bad. It may be cold outside, but I'll wear a scarf. It may get dark early, but I'll find a way to enjoy it. It is a pain to bring home work every night or to do the dance of educational hooplah before even being able to think about actually teaching, but I'll get it all done anyway.

But really, if I didn't feel the winters cold, I wouldn't revel in the warmth of the summer heat. If I didn't know what the landscape looked like in the doldrums of winter, I wouldn't appreciate the greenery and blossoms of the spring. If I didn't have to work quite so hard at teaching, I wouldn't love what I do quite so much. You can't do right without knowing wrong, or see darkness without knowing light- so why should I make things so complicated for myself in wishing I was elsewhere?

I guess for now I will keep my dreams of being elsewhere neatly stashed away in my back pocket to revisit in my dreams. Traveling the world and experiencing new things will just have to wait a while. Besides, I have important work to do. So I will drag myself out of bed everyday and face the cold. I will find beauty in the little things, even a barren tree. And eventually, I will get to that beach, hear those tree frogs, and see that sunset.

Cold noses with warm intentions...

There's nothing like curling up with a couple of mutts who unconditionally regard you as being wicked awesome.

I grew up with dogs. My Dad was a hunter and we always had dogs in our home. My brother had the biggest, goofiest golden- Barney. He got him for his 16th birthday instead of a car. His only requirement to my parents was that he got "the biggest one", and big he got. Barney- over 100 lbs, became a staple in our town of Newburyport, MA. He made his rounds at local eateries, and everyone knew him by name. He may have wandered a bit, but that dog knew where his boy was. The dog even went to jail with my brother. True story. Caught at a marina after hours drinking when he shouldn't have been, my brother ran, and true to the New England terrain, got caught in a swamp by the Merrimac River. Instead of ditching his faithful companion who couldn't make it through the mud, he tried to carry Barney- all 100 lbs, and failed miserably. There they were- partners in crime, the brunt of the Newburyport PD's jokes.

True to Flagg family fashion, fresh out of college and about to spend my first Thanksgiving away from New England and my family, I decided to get a dog. I still remember how hard it snowed that night, Thanksgiving eve, as my roommates and I drove into the backwoods of western Pennsylvania to get Oliver Reilly Flagg. There he was, a tiny, scared, whimpering beagle. Pathetically shivering with his ears back and tail between his legs. The family selling him was clearly an old fashioned hunting family with many dogs, as they kept the pups outside (which my Dad never did- the dogs always seemed more important than even us!) The wife of the hunter leaned over and asked "will he be kept inside or out?" When I replied he would be sleeping with me a look a relief came over her face. It was then I knew Oliver and I were destined to be soulmates. We drove home in the snow, and had our first Thanksgiving together, where he indulged in turkey with extra gravy. We had some fun times in Pittsburgh. He quickly learned the ins and outs of college living, and loved to lick up spilled beer from under the feet of beer pong players in our house or scrounge the scraps my boy roommates would leave hanging around. Faithfully every night he and I would retire to our room and he took his place on a pillow in bed snuggled right up against me. That dog made me feel at home more than any picture, care package, or phone call. His little noises as he slept, and sighs of contentment when I would shift him out of place during the night, even his cold, wet, nose nudging me to go out. Protective as ever, he kept me on my toes, and kept everyone else on their toes as well!

Then there was Sawyer Brut. Of course one pup to love was not enough, and after I moved to Eastern Pennsylvania with Aaron, we decided to share our love with another canine. After some debate as to what kind of mutt to get, we landed on the retriever. As avid water lovers and adventurers at heart, a water loving dog, sloppy as they are, seemed to be a perfect fit. We searched high and low and upon meeting Sawyer, fell in love. With a sweet charm about him, he is always close at our heels. He gets this look about him sometimes, where I swear he knows exactly what I am feeling. And when I am down, he quietly and ever so gently puts his head on my lap and sighs a deep, long, empathetic sigh. Oh how much I feel loved when he's there. Somewhat bold and actually quite needy, the day we got Sawyer it was clear this was his disposition. In the car he was even forward enough to make it known to poor Oliver (also in the car) that he was the new man on campus and the indubitable little brother. I will never forget the look Oliver gave Aaron and I as we were driving home "you mean he is actually coming HOME with us?!" Oliver didn't speak to us for a few weeks, and he surely wanted nothing to do with this 10 pound furball. Eventually Ollie came around, and before we knew it Oliver and Sawyer were virtually inseparable. We even have to take trips to the vet with both dogs because if one is taken away, the other cries at the door until they're together again. At first that was cute, later it wasn't as much. Sawyer has this little brother feel to him, and it's known in the house when Ollie doesn't want to play any longer. Sawyer may be 80 pounds now, and Ollie only 22, but Oliver surely rules the roost.


I have to say how incredibly lucky I am to come home to such animated personalities. I could be having the most terrible day- tired, weepy, frustrated, stressed, sick, overwhelmed- you name it. And as soon as I open that door, there they are; endlessly full of happiness and so utterly eager to please. Bodies wiggling with complete excitement, whines of love, grunts of acceptance, snorts of contentment- all of which are intended for me, and only me. I await the cold noses pressed up against me, just begging to be loved... and to do nothing but love me in return.

Fall back...

It's November and most of the leaves have delicately fallen to their places on the ground in vivid hues of yellow and orange- soon after turning a dull brown and settling in for the winter. The air has turned quite crisp and my cravings for hot tea, cider, or chocolate have spurred late night cookie fits. It's hard to believe that about year ago Aaron and I were starting our journey towards becoming home-owners.

The prospect of something so new (uncharted territory if you will), was exciting and albeit, daunting. Who knew that it would take less than a month to find our perfect little first house, get approved for a loan, and sign our lives away on a brand spanking new mortgage? I often think about that fateful day, initialing every page of the 100 page document and feeling dizzy from nodding the quintessential "uh huh" whenever asked "do you understand this part?" Thank goodness for Aaron- I am by no means a girl who understands the economic and financial lingo. But, when handed those keys the feeling is indescribable. The ride to the house that evening was even more indescribable. Walking up to the door and unlocking our house for the first time, by ourselves- hand in hand, on a cold November evening, was more than exhilarating.

The feeling of imminent panic that struck after we sat for a minute in the empty kitchen, catching our breath, seems laughable to me now. "What the hell do we do now?!" I thought. It just came naturally I guess. I felt like such an adult. Much different than being in high school and going out to dinner with one of your friends (sans parents), for the first time and feeling accomplished to have figured out the tip without a tip calculator and wondering if you look as much like an adult as you feel. Or going to happy hour for the first time after being 21 and ordering a martini or glass of wine instead of cheap beer for no other reason but to look sophisticated, "adult-like" and as though you really were of age, no fake ID's this time Mr. Bouncer!



This feeling even trumped buying a real couch, and real bed, none of that hand-me-down furniture that is nasty but it doesn't matter because it's going in my college house crap. Real, grown up furniture.

The feeling was what I would assume to be- responsibility. We're not renting anymore. We're not throwing keggers, randomly nailing up pictures because we don't care how the drywall crumbles, no "woopsies" when you spill on the carpet. Whatever work and sweat equity we put into it, is ours to reap the benefit of. Here we are now, almost a year after that chilly, auspicious evening, and we're ripping up carpet and laminate, painting walls, filling in cracks, laying new hardwood, and remodeling the bathroom. Our weekends don't consist of bar hopping, singing karaoke and scarfing down 4$ pizzas at 3 am. Instead, we're getting up early, throwing on the paint splattered sweats and making our house a home. OUR home.

Falling back and reminiscing about the day we walked into our house for the first time, brings me to think of our future here. In just a year we've created a lifetime full of memories, our first Christmas in the house, a happy New Years Eve party, snowballs and snowmobiles in the yard with the dogs, discovering what flowers will come up in the spring and mapping our the gardens for next year, a June extravaganza complete with a bonfire, good friends and spirits, and endless evenings of content curled up on the couch (a real couch at that). I can't imagine it could get any better. But true to my existentialist studies in college, I have got to remember that our past is informing our present and thus pushing us into the future. Life isn't a static forward or backward timeline. It's a circle of memories to remember, memories to be experienced, and memories to be made.